


the beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair

by FlashFlashFlash



Series: Anaemic!Patrick [4]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Diabetes, Eczema, F/F, Hospitals, Idella Yarder, Illness, M/M, Mpreg, Original Character - Freeform, Peterick, Trohley - Freeform, Vomiting, anaemia, anemia, carrier Patrick, child Patrick is so cute, i hope the time jumping isn't too confusing, i know nothing about hospitals in Chicago, idk how to feel about this, married Patrick Stump and Pete Wentz, pregnant Patrick, these tags are a fucking mess, time jumps
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 13:35:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11738133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlashFlashFlash/pseuds/FlashFlashFlash
Summary: "Mommy?"Silence, for about the third time, except for Patrick's unanswered call ricocheting around the dreary hospital room walls. Even in the dark, the white paint glows with the ominous tone of antiseptic and anaesthetic. Patrick knows that the dancing teddy bears on the walls are supposed to be comforting, funny, maybe- they're supposed to make him smile, but he knows. He knows that they're fake grins, as easily removed as the vomit on the driveway at Patrick's house, scrubbed and hosed away as if that will make everything better.He's only young, but he knows.





	the beauty of grace is that it makes life not fair

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure about this one, as it focuses quite a lot around an original character. Constructive feedback/criticism is welcome, as always! Idella Yarder is completely and entirely a figment if my imagination, and any similarities to any person or previously existing fictional character were unintentional. 
> 
> This is barely proofread. Sorry.  
> Author x




"Mommy?"

Silence, for about the third time, except for Patrick's unanswered call ricocheting around the dreary hospital room walls. Even in the dark, the white paint glows with the ominous tone of antiseptic and anaesthetic. Patrick knows that the dancing teddy bears on the walls are supposed to be comforting, funny, maybe- they're supposed to make him smile, but he knows. He knows that they're fake grins, as easily removed as the vomit on the driveway at Patrick's house, scrubbed and hosed away as if that will make everything better.

He's only young, but he knows.

"Mommy?" Patrick tries again, but his voice is weak, and crying out only makes his aching stomach muscles pull. He struggles to sit up in his shiny, silent hospital bed, but he makes it, frowning at the way it doesn't creak like his own bed, or Mommy's, and making sure he doesn't pull at the cannula in his little, white hand. Patrick squints at the box on the wall, directly in front of him, above the door that's just a few feet from the foot of his bed, watching as one of the numbers flips over.

"It's a clock, sweetie," Mommy had said, all smiles and watery eyes, when he had asked about it. "But, look, it shows you the date, too."

Now, in the dark, without his glasses in reach, Patrick can't make out some of the numbers, because the shadow cast by a tree outside his window makes them hard to see. Carefully, Patrick picks out the numbers he can see, the ones at the bottom, the ones that tell him the date. Each number he reads, he counts out on his fingers, making sure to whisper it quietly, too.

"Zero, five," Patrick frowns, and ignores the diagonal line that comes next. "Zero, three." Another little slash. "Nine, zero."

Huh.

05/03/90.

Patrick is absolutely sure that today is the day that his class is supposed to go on a trip to a real life farm. He knows because he's smart, Mommy told him so, when he scored a perfect ten on his spelling test last week. Patrick wonders if his class will go to the farm without him. He thinks that they probably will, because only Miss Harper seems to really like him, and he doesn't think his classmates will miss him all that much.

"Mommy!" He tries, one last time, because his Mommy loves him; she told him so when they were in the ambulance, on the way to the hospital, when she was crying. Patrick thought being in an ambulance would be cool, but it wasn't, and the driver didn't go slowly round the bends like Mommy does.

Finally, someone hears him shout.

A lady in a very neat, pale blue dress and an apron, with a funny little watch pinned to her chest, peers into his room from behind the glass. She frowns; Patrick is crying, and he didn't even notice himself start. The lady gently opens his door, leaning her pale face into the room, where Patrick can see that her skin is almost completely smooth, and her hair is dark.

"Hello, young man, what's going on?" The lady comes over and stands beside Patrick's bed, watching him cry softly. "My name is Idella. I'm a nurse. Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Patrick wants to tell her that he wants Mommy, not her, but he doesn't, he can't. His little brain has more pressing issues.

"I feel sick." Patrick sniffles, trying to stop his tears. "My skin is itchy." He holds out his arms for Idella to see, the puffy little raised areas that bleed and bleed and bleed, even when he's good and puts his cream on three times a day. He swallows all of the water in his mouth that wasn't there before.

"That's no good, is it?" Idella sits carefully on the edge of Patrick's bed, beside him, and reaches for one of the scratchy cardboard bowls that Patrick hates. She carefully places a hand on his back, like he might break, and holds the little bowl in Patrick's lap. "Don't you worry for a second, young man."

Patrick knows that he should nod, or say something, if he wants to be polite, but he opens his mouth to talk and splutters around thin air.

"Use the bowl if you need to be sick," Idella brings the rim up to his chin, where it rubs. Patrick uses the bowl eventually. In fact, he uses three, and he feels so dizzy when he's done that Idella has to help him lie down. "I'm going to get your mommy, and I'll be back in a minute," Idella says as she approaches the door.

Patrick's mommy is there soon enough, and he is glad of it, even if he does feel guilty for waking her up. Apparently, she had been sleeping in the waiting room.

Patrick sees Idella almost every day for the next two weeks, and he makes her a 'thank you' card when he's discharged. Idella nearly cries when she opens her card, and Patrick says that it's okay, because he'll be back before she knows it, but this only makes her more sad.

Patrick is right. He's back in hospital by July.

-

"'Della, 'm gonna throw up again," Patrick groans, an arm tight over his stomach, the other fisted in the pillowcase. So far, his fifteenth birthday is not going quite how he planned it. His stomach rattles, and he feels guilty, ashamed, almost, when the best he can do is lean over the side of the bed so he doesn't ruin his sheets. He nearly head-butts Kevin, but misses his brother's shoes, and is thankful for at least that. His savings from his on-again, off-again Saturday job at the record store don't amount to enough for new ones. Idella swoops in with her scratchy cardboard, but, of course, she's too late.

"Woah, take it easy, baby brother," Kevin laughs. He's used to hospital visits now, his own youth stained with them nearly as much as Patrick's. Patrick can tell that this one is different from the rest, though. There's something glistening in the back of Kevin's eyes that could be anything.

"Ugh, I'm so gross," Patrick slowly lies down again, but not without taking the bowl from Idella and holding it close, just in case.

"I'm not so sure about that, buddy. I'm sure the hot seniors you've been ogling will be lining up outside the hospital gates to fuck you when you get out!" Kevin chuckles nervously. They both know that's not true. Idella smiles sympathetically as she crouches down to clean the floor and nudges Kevin's feet out of the way.

"Cut the shit, Kevin," Patrick whines. "What's going on? Why are you here?"

"It's your birthday," Kevin deadpans.

"You're here before Mommy, though. You're never here before Mommy." In that moment, Patrick realises he still calls his mother 'Mommy', even though he's fifteen.

"I'm moving away, Patrick."

The whole world grinds to a halt. Patrick can't hear the beeping of the machine he's hooked up to. He can't feel the cannula in the back of his hand, or the wishy-washy sensation in his head that comes after too many blood tests. Patrick can't hear anything, feel anything, see anything but the look, the furrowed brows, on Kevin's face.

"But-" Patrick starts, not even attempting to scrabble into a sitting position, just wallowing in the feeling of dizziness and too much spit in his mouth.

"I'm catching a train to Salt Lake City this afternoon. You're not allowed to be angry at me, 'cause I shouldn't have to stay in Chicago my whole life just 'cause you do." There's no emotion in Kevin's voice. It's a rehearsed speech. He checks his watch mechanically. "It's twelve already, I best be going, actually."

"I'm not staying in Chicago my whole life," Patrick whimpers into his sick bowl. "I'm gonna find a band, remember?"

"Patrick, get real," Kevin spits. "You're not gonna find a band that can deal with you and all this," he gestures around the room angrily. "Mom only does it 'cause she loves you. You're her kid, of course she deals, but no fucker wants a guy who can't breathe when he walks up a flight of stairs." Kevin snatches his bag and storms to the door. "See you at Thanksgiving."

The way the door slams makes Patrick shudder. Without Kevin, he's not normal. An older brother is what normal kids have. Kevin is his staple, that thing that makes his classmates realise that under the eczema on his neck and the blue-ish tinge to his lips when he struggles all the way to the top floor of the music block is a normal kid. A kid with an older brother is relatable, recognisable. A kid who lives alone with his mom and is best friends with his nurse, is not.

"Patrick?" Idella asks, peeling back her cleaning gloves to cradle his face. "Talk to me," she coaxes, as Patrick stares past her, a tear dripping from his cheek to the crisp hospital pillow.

"He was my last bit of normal," Patrick chokes out, before descending into a pit of uncontrollable tears. "Without him, I don't think I can do it."

"Don't you worry for a second, young man."

-

"So, tell me more about this Pete guy," Della says, handing Patrick an ice cream cone. "And don't tell Doctor Nickle about this ice cream." She grins as Patrick swipes at his ice cream with his tongue.

"He's only a little bit taller than me, and he's been in all these cool bands I like. He invited me to drum for this new band he and this other guy, Joe, are working on, but he thinks maybe I should sing instead. He's, like, basically perfect, and he's so hot, Della, you should see him. If I didn't know better I'd drop my panties for him right away," Patrick flushes heavily. He hadn't seen Della in a few months, because he's sixteen, now, so he's an adult, and Della only works shifts on the paediatric ward. He hasn't been an inpatient for a year.

"Patrick!" Della fakes shock. "You're barely legal!"

"Yeah, but-"

"No, 'but', young man, if you get pregnant, your hormones will go crazy, and you'll be seeing a lot more public toilets than you might care to." She playfully bashes Patrick on the arm.

"I'm not gonna get pregnant, Della," Patrick takes another kick of his ice cream, and hangs his head low. "I doubt he's into guys, anyway, and, even if he was, I'm just a chubby little short guy with a list of medical conditions longer than his arm."

"Don't talk about yourself like that, Patrick." Della stops, forcing Patrick to do the same. "You're a healthy weight, you need some fat on your body to keep yourself in good health. You may be a little shorter than a lot of guys, but it's cute. Irresistible, even."

Idella is the coolest person, besides Pete, that Patrick has ever met, because she makes him feel like Patrick Stump: High School Student, Future Musician and Actual Person, rather than Patrick Stumph: Sweaty Little Anaemic, Diabetic Boy with Severe Asthma, ADHD and a Dopey Name.

"Della, I'm not gonna be a famous musician, am I?"

"What makes you say that?"

"I'm, well... I'm me." Patrick sighs. "I'm worried Pete's gonna kick me out of the band when he finds out about all this." He gestures to the hospital behind Idella, and to her uniform. She looks out of place on the pavement, post-shift bags under her eyes, as if she's been cut out of a nursing magazine and stuck onto the contents page of Cosmo. Patrick is far too familiar with Cosmo's layout now, after years of waiting on plastic chairs that hurt his bum, flipping through an issue that's always at least two months out of date.

"Don't you worry for a second, young man."

There it is. The sentence that tells Patrick that if Pete does kick him out of the band, Della will listen to him cry, and pretend to be shocked when his mom asks her to stay for dinner.

-

"Hello, young man. I'd like my copy of this wonderful album signed." Idella approaches the table Fall Out Boy are seated at; it's a bit too short, so they're squashed up, and Pete may or may not be using this as an excuse to keep rubbing his hand up and down Patrick's thigh. She pushes her brand new copy of From Under The Cork Tree into Patrick's hand.

"Della." Patrick blushes heavily. They've been at this signing in this stuffy New York record store for way too long, around three hours, maybe four, and his face was already flushed with the heat, so there isn't much difference now. "You came all this way?"

"I was visiting my brother, and your mom text me to say you were in town- but, enough with the questions! I've been queuing for, like, an hour." She rolls her eyes.

Pete takes the album from Patrick, and starts scribbling something with his marker, all over the front. Joe leans over his shoulder and reads steadily. "Thanks for keeping my boyfriend alive, smiley face, Pete."

"You're very welcome, Pete." Della grins. "It's my pleasure." She's well acquainted with Pete now, as a result of far too many rule-breaking hospital visits and dinners with Patrick's mom. Idella did meet Joe once, when she came to see them play a few years back, but Andy was just a mop of long hair and a whirlwind of arms to her. She extends her arm to Andy for him to shake her hand. "I'm Idella. I'm a paediatric nurse at Patrick's hospital; I used to work on the general ward when Patrick was younger, but I moved to oncology when he turned sixteen."

"Uh, Andy. Drummer, and general friend of Patrick," Andy replies, shaking her hand lightly. Next to him, Joe is scrawling something into the back cover of Idella's album. "We should be done soon, maybe you'd like to join us for coffee afterwards?"

"I'd love to!" Idella uses her ever-positive nurse voice to express her evident delight. "I never get asked to go out for coffee! Even my girlfriend thinks I smell too strongly of antiseptic to take me on impromptu dates now." Andy laughs, and then he's signing her album, so Idella turns back to Patrick.

"Doctor Hemp had me look at your last bloods, Patrick," Idella is lowering her voice, a little worried, and buying her lip. "Your iron was low again, like, six-year-old-Patrick-who-can't-keep-down-his-iron low. I'm worried about you. Your glucose was up a little, too."

"I had a stomach bug, couldn't keep anything down." Patrick avoids Idella's gaze, knowing what question is next.

"Uh-huh. And the glucose?"

"I, uh, lost my pump for a few days." He snaps his head up to look at her, afraid. He's met with a steely gaze. "Mommy flew out with a spare, though- I'm okay now!"

"You're paying for my coffee, young man," Idella shoots back at him.

"Ouch," Pete laughs. Patrick elbows him.

"One more thing, Doctor Hemp said you sent in for all the regular checks you get with a pregnancy test?"

The whole world grinds to a halt. Tears push at the corners of his eyes, and Pete slips a hand into his, but he doesn't register it. Joe leans across and slides the album in front of him. Silence.

"It was-"

"Negative, yeah, I know. Just a stomach flu and a calendar issue." He swallows a lump in his throat, and smiles the best he can, falsely.

"I'm sorry, Patrick." Idella hangs her head.

"Doesn't matter. I shouldn't be upset over something I never had."

"Yes, but-"

"Can we just talk about where we're going for coffee, please, Idella?"

It's the first time he's used her full name in years.

He regrets it instantly, though, because she says, "Don't you worry for one second, young man. You'll have a baby one day."

He's not sure he believes her.

-

"The first time I met Patrick, he was in for anaemia and bad eczema," Idella stirs her coffee carefully. "It was all over his elbows and knees- it was so bad he could barely walk without crying from the pain, and we had to change the dressings every half hour or so because it was so sticky."

"It's not so bad anymore." Pete pours a little milk into his own mug. "It was when I met him, but it's just his neck, now. You'd never know to look at his skin, he hardly scars."

"He was crying, calling for his mom, and I was in for the night shift, just as a trainee, but I'd seen her leaving his room when I'd come in. The doctor had turned all the lights off, and he looked so little and pale in his bed." Idella takes a sip of black coffee. "I went in, and I knew he wanted his mom, he was only six, but he was throwing up and I don't think he had the strength to call for her anymore. Trisha was so upset, she was convinced it was her fault, saying something about this fall she'd had when she was pregnant with him, but it wasn't her fault."

"She told me about that once. She worries a lot." Pete sighs. "When I told her I was going to ask Patrick to marry me, she cried because she thought he wasn't going to make it to be old enough to get married. Is that true?"

"Gosh, yeah. It was only a few days we thought we might lose him the first time- July 1990, I remember it clear as day- but he held on and he pulled through. I reckon it was some kind of miracle. On paper, he should be housebound, but he isn't. He's got severe asthma, anaemia and diabetes, he's got erratic hormones, he's a carrier, and he's got all this stuff going on in his head," Idella speaks slowly, staring straight past Pete for a while, then she meets his eyes. "You're marrying a miracle."

"I haven't even asked him yet, he might say 'no'," Pete ponders.

"Approximately sixteen years ago, I met a little boy who couldn't breathe, could barely walk, and passed out if he didn't eat every half an hour. Nobody on that ward thought he was going to live, they had the sheet folded at the end of the bed just in case. Nobody believed in him, not a single soul, except himself. He wanted so badly to play music and be happy and grow up, get away from the shitty kids at school that he pulled through. He pulled through for you, Peter. You're his chance to play music, his chance to be a mom and have a family. Don't you worry for a second, young man. He is most definitely going to say yes."

-

"I call first visiting rights after delivery!" Idella screeches, accidentally flinging her breast pump across the room in excitement. There's a small splattering of her milk on the rug, but most of it had remained in the clear plastic container, which now lay on the hearth.

"Baby, chill," Idella's wife, Charlie, says calmly, tucking her blond hair behind her ear and shifting the sleeping newborn in her arms. "You'll wake Florence."

"Sorry, Della." Patrick shrugs, one hand on his firm stomach, the other in Pete's. Joe gets up and returns Idella's pump with a smile. "My mom beat you to it."

"I guess that's fair." Idella glances at the baby in Charlie's arms. "I still think you're too young to have a baby."

"I'm twenty-three."

"And I'm thirty-six! Lord knows I wasn't ready for such sleep deprivation-"

"I'm married to Pete, Della. I think I'm ready." Patrick scoffs.

"I have known you for too long for that to be a piece of information that I'm comfortable receiving." Idella swallows.

"Insomnia- I meant the insomnia, Della, God." There's a short, but comfortable, silence. Joe and Andy entwine their hands on the loveseat they're sharing. Baby Florence opens her mouth, but closes it again, much to her mothers' relief. Pete traces his eyes up, along his husband's torso, lingering around the pale hand atop his thick navy jumper. "You're not really angry, though, right? You don't think it's a bad idea?" Patrick's voice is low, scared, almost.

"Of course not, I'm just worried about you. Diabetic pregnancies can be really, really risky, and that's not all you've got going on." Idella sighs.

"I want this baby so badly, that sometimes, I think I'm going to explode," Patrick whispers. His voice is nearly lost in the living room, almost completely enveloped by the flames of the fireplace, eaten up by the evening air and swallowed whole.

"You have to give your baby a name that means something," Andy says quietly. "Something that will mean as much to them as they do to you."

Idella laughs.

"I named my baby after Florence Nightingale." She glances at Florence. "Nursing has been my entire life- my mom was a nurse, and when I was five, she gave me a little book called 'The Lady With the Lamp', and I decided right then that I wanted to be just like her. I left high school, went straight into training, and on my first night shift -I must have only done a few days at that point- I met this tiny, tiny little boy, and he cried and he threw up on me but I still came back the next night to see if he was okay-" she turns her head to look at Patrick. "He had so much random shit wrong with him that he just knew he was gonna be back soon, but he spent three days making me a thank you card anyway. He did that every time he came in, right up until his last admission to the paediatric ward. I have twenty-six thank you cards in my bedside cabinet."

"You kept all those?"

"Every single one." Idella nods.

"I was six. I still can't believe you gave it up."

"Neither can I, but now, I have the best job ever."

"Twenty-six admissions..." Pete mutters. "Jesus, I knew you were in hospital a lot, but, God, I can't even begin to imagine that."

"You get used to it." Patrick shrugs. "Sometimes I still miss the beeping of the monitors when I'm trying to sleep."

"If it makes you feel better, Dell tries to give me physicals in her sleep sometimes. Pulse, temperature, blood pressure, the whole lot- once, she told me my glucose was up and my iron low, so I blame Patrick."

-

"Jesus fucking Christ, I'm never doing this again, Pete," Patrick grapples for the gas and air, breath catching in his throat. "I hate you so fucking much right now."

"This is the last one, Lunchbox." Pete grins.

"Promise?" Patrick throws his head back as pain rips through him.

"Promise," Pete replies, pressing a kiss to the back of Patrick's hand. "Two kids is enough for me, as long as it's enough for you."

"Ugh, I need to push, call the nurse, midwife, whatever," Patrick pants, and takes a long, deep breath of the gas.

"How the fuck do I do that?" Pete looks around frantically.

"Button on the wall-" Patrick gasps. "Blue, white figure on it -quickly!"

Pete's eyes search the panel of little buttons on the wall above the headboard, finally landing on the right one, and bashing it with all his might.

A little while later, when Patrick’s skin has been dabbed at with a cold damp cloth and his hair is brushed underneath his hat, he waits eagerly to hold his little girl again. "This isn't your first, your records say so," a nameless midwife says, handing Patrick a tiny baby, freshly washed and swaddled.

"We've got a little boy called Oliver." Pete smiles at his daughter. "He's two."

"He's so excited to meet his little sister," Patrick coos.

"Does baby have a name?" The midwife asks a few moments later. "We need to write her a little wristband, but we can just put Baby Girl Wentz if you're still deciding."

"No, she's had a name since before she was even conceived," Pete's almost whispering, as not to wake his daughter.

"And what might that be?"

"Idella."

-

"It's okay, Mom," Idella pulls Patrick into her chest. "You can cry, it's okay."

"I love you, Ida," Patrick whines.

"I love you, too, Mom. I'm sorry this is happening."

The icy January car park around Ida's car bites at it's navy blue paint. The car was an eighteenth birthday present, but, half a decade later, Ida still couldn't let it go. Cold bounces from the bonnet to the mother-daughter duo, gnawing through their clothes and dissolving their pale skin.

Patrick had always felt at home in this hospital parking lot. This parking lot had always meant a promised recovery, a journey home, a baby or a cure, but today the building it belonged to loomed over him, enveloping him in a shadow.

"I need this to just be over, muffin." Patrick takes his daughter' hand and leads her towards the entrance. "It's supposed to be me-"

"No, Mom," Ida squeezes his hand. "Do I need to get Uncle Andy to talk to you again?"

"No," Patrick chuckles sadly as he pulls Idella up the stairs, towards the oncology ward.

"Good, because I'd have to cook for him as payment, and I'm too lazy for tofu today."

Then, all of a sudden, the double doors are there, a young nurse stood with a clipboard in front of them.

"Mrs Idella Yarder, please," Patrick chokes out, swallowing his nerves.

"Third bed on the left."

Through the doors is another world. It's antiseptic and anaesthetic, like the smell of Nurse Idella Yarder, even after years as a stay-at-home mom. It's clean cut, like the incision of a caesarean, bringing hope, glimmering in the distance, but defies nature in such a way that the guilt of betrayal often drags it down into the depths of a grave, or the basement of a funeral parlour.

Idella is still beautiful. She is still the kind nurse that brought Patrick's mother to him, still the soft touch of a dressing change, and still elegant, despite herself. Perhaps she had been learning how to be graceful in death during her years on the paediatric oncology ward. Perhaps she had seen those children fade, and made mental notes on what to do, how to sip her water, how to struggle through each breath, just so that she would not look a fool when her own time came. Perhaps she had watched, knowing that one day she wouldn't have to anymore. Perhaps she had learned, or perhaps she was just beautiful.

She had no hair left. Not many on the ward had much. She did not cover her scalp with a scarf. Instead, she lay, her head cold and skin flaking, pale, bare for the world to see. Idella Yarder still had brown eyes, and red blood, and careful fingers, but she shook uncontrollably. It was the most beautiful shake that she held in her hands -deliberate, almost. Her head lifted as the door opened. Ida hung back a little, Patrick only a few feet closer to Idella's bed than she.

When Patrick reached the bed, he said, "Don't leave me, Della. I can't do it without you," and tried not to gasp when he felt the dryness of her skin.

"Don't you worry for a second, young man." Nurse Idella Yarder smiled. Patrick was not young anymore, but that was besides the point. The point was the life being bleached from her eyes by the chemo, the death rattling in her lungs, the wrongness of this happening, this way around. Patrick was supposed to die before he graduated middle school. That's just how it was supposed to be. But, he didn't, and, now, Idella paid the price. A life for a life, as the Bible does say.

Patrick never saw Idella smile again, but, as he left the hospital that day, he knew that he wouldn't. He knew that he wouldn't see her smile again, because he had cheated death so many times, but Idella Yarder had always played fair.

 


End file.
